


As we take off on this mighty road

by holyfant



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology
Genre: Gen, Modern Setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-12
Updated: 2016-06-12
Packaged: 2018-07-14 14:52:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7176374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holyfant/pseuds/holyfant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What travel is, to the gods.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As we take off on this mighty road

**Author's Note:**

> Written for my tiny new nephew, Mète, who is named after the messenger of the gods: the god of travel, of thievery, of crossing bridges and making it back to the other side.

“It's important,” says Hermes, “not to look up.” Beneath them there is the river of light of the E19, skirting Antwerp: fast-flowing, the swarming headlights like bees in the spreading evening dusk. Hermes lets his winged feet dangle from the large electronic speeding sign on which they're sitting. It says _120_ , then _90,_ then it counts down again to _70_. The cars are slowing, unwillingly, the arteries of traffic clotting. There are blue lights off in the distance, snatches of sirens. Someone's dead; they both know it. If any of the drivers were to look up now they'd see them. They're not invisible, these days. But the drivers have other concerns: calling home hands-free, telling whoever's waiting with takeout that traffic is hell. Tapping fingers on steering wheels. Thinking about tomorrow's presentation. Scolding the arguing kids in the backseat.

 

“I think you mean, it's important not to look _down_ ,” Iris says primly, changes foot lightly, balances on the edge on her toes, her skirt flapping in the wind.

 

“No, looking down is obligatory,” Hermes says, and does, leaning forward dangerously. If she thought she could stop him, she would, but as it is she only watches. “We have to _observe_ – that's why we're here. It's up that's dangerous.”

 

She looks up, because up is her domain, and anyway, she can't not do something when he tells her she shouldn't. Spinning away from the world is space, filtering slowly into focus above the traffic lights. It's early still, the soft weak sun falling away on one side, the icy night gaining on the other. Apollo will be chilly tonight. Iris sees herself, mirrored in the glassy eye of the universe: the lights of rain and sun, of cold billowing space gas in purple and green.

 

He's right, it's dangerous. She keeps on looking.

 

“You're incorrigible,” Hermes says.

 

“ _You_ spend your time on speeding signs,” she says, and sighs dramatically. “You used to be more fun.”

 

“Thieves aren't what they were in the old days. I prefer the travellers now.”

 

They're quiet for a while; he looking down at the people, she looking up at the gods. So much for bridges, she thinks, so much for being the messenger. They're not needed these days; they are visible, yet no one notices them.

 

“They die so fast,” she says, thinking of the blue flashing lights, measuring it against the deepening colour of the sky.

 

“Yes,” he says. “But they are also born all the time.”

 

She stops looking up, sits down next to him, lets her feet dangle like his. “So, the travellers, you say?”

 

He glances at her, his mouth soft. “There are people who think everything has already been discovered. I like it when they find out that they're wrong.”

 

“Hm.”

 

The slowly moving cars below grumble loudly, shivering and steaming like cattle squeezed together for the night.

 

“Oh,” she says suddenly, “did you feel that?”

 

He grins, immediately again more like himself, like the Hermes she's known since the dawn of time. “Oh, yes. That was a nice one. That _is_ a nice one.”

 

They sit on the speeding sign as it counts down to _30_ , basking in the glory of the birth, a feeling of elation, of being made alive: and the baby, named after him, the traveller, the thief, starts to cry.


End file.
